Which translated to: Ivy was in heat. I couldn’t fathom how women lived in a house full of virile men in that condition. Lorenzo undoubtedly sated Ivy’s every need, but did she mingle with the pack? If so, the men must have scattered, afraid of looking at her the wrong way and suffering Lorenzo’s punishment. A Shifter couldn’t get near a woman in heat without his divining rod pointing the way.

“How’s Ivy’s business going?” I asked. “I’ve always envied girls with her talent.”

“Keeping her busy.” April grimaced after taking a sip of lemonade from her paper cup. “The last time I spoke to her, some big shot was offering her a lot of money to restore a houseful of antiques. They’re in poor condition, but he can’t let go of them because of the sentimental value.”

I bristled when someone brushed up against my back and sat beside me. Ben casually leaned on his left arm and watched me, mischief twinkling in his pale brown eyes. He kept his dusty-brown hair trimmed and his face shaved as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Of all the Weston pack, he dressed the most casually, and I don’t mean that in a raggedy-jeans and T-shirt way, but rather a man who preferred cotton shirts with collars, and khaki shorts. He might be what Wheeler would look like if he were a normal citizen.

Ben offered me a lazy smile. “I’m glad you came. You should come more often.”

His words hung in the air and collected dust before I answered. “I only come when I want to, not when I’m told.”

“Mee-ow,” he purred, biting his lower lip.

Wheeler’s eyes centered on his plate while he slowly scraped the icing off his dessert.

“Are you off tonight?” Ben continued.

“No, I have to work.”

“Dilemma. Maybe I can… get you off.”

The more his mouth flapped, the less funny he became. Innuendoes were my guilty pleasure in life, but his were incessant and borderline creepy.

When he touched my arm with his index finger, Wheeler shoved his plate forward. The legs of his chair made a terrible noise as he scooted back. “Why don’t you check out the video poker in the back?”

“Busy,” Ben replied absently, admiring the dark curls of my hair.

Wheeler crossed his ankle over his knee and clenched his jaw.

“Melody!” Izzy blurted out.

I looked over my shoulder and watched William stroll through the front doors with a little girl holding his hand. Izzy and Jericho’s little girl, to be exact.

Unlike Hope, Melody looked like a handful. Someone had braided only the ends of her tangled hair, so she had flyaway hairs up top and skinny braids at the end. She hadn’t inherited Izzy’s red hair but looked the spitting image of Jericho, from his milky-green eyes to his brown locks. Melody had Izzy’s lips and outgoing personality. She let go of William’s hand and strutted toward the table, just as sassy as any three-and-a-half-year-old could be in her white tights, black moccasin boots, and neon-pink shirt. That girl owned her strut and even did a hair flip.